Midnight in Los Angeles
by piccolina789
Summary: Moments are fleeting, but the memories last a lifetime. Sara and Grissom make the best of the little time they get to spend with each other.


**A/N: **So this is a story about absolutely nothing! But I've wanted to write something for a while, sooooo here we are!

Hope you have all been having a wonderful summer! x

* * *

For all intents and purposes, Sara Sidle was not a materialistic woman. Her wardrobe mostly consisted of jeans and varying colors of v-neck t-shirts, she rarely did her hair any more and though her make-up bag was full of dark shadows and matching liners for special occasions, all she needed on a day-to-day basis was a good moisturizer and some mascara. Though Catherine most likely hadn't realized how it sounded when she referenced Sara's workday look at scene all those years ago, she was actually probably right. Sara didn't really care how she looked. Especially at work, but, really, most all the time. She had never found herself particularly pretty, even when the quiet boy in her math class in middle school shyly told her he loved her freckles, nor when her boobs came in a few years later, or even when she realized her long, skinny legs were the objects of much envy of all the girls in her high school gym class.

That's not to say she let herself go. No, she still ran regularly, whitened her teeth every few weeks (although not an orthodontist in Southern California was able to figure out how to permanently close the gap she hated), took good care of her skin and did admit to double-checking her appearance in TV screens or windows every now and then. She even went with a full-blown up-do and smoky eyes at her mother-in-law's scholarship event last year.

And that's not to say she _never_ felt pretty. Even she had to admit that a new outfit or haircut did wonders. And though most all of her ex-boyfriends sucked, when things were in their early phases, they all did say nice things to make her feel pretty. During the few months when she tricked herself into thinking Hank was a catch and would never do a thing to hurt her, he would get this expression on his face when he looked at her, like she was a piece of exquisite, exotic chocolate waiting to be unwrapped.

But with Gil… it was a completely different story. He didn't just make her feel pretty, he made her feel beautiful. And it was all because of what he said and how he said it. He didn't just say, "you look beautiful" or "that dress makes you look amazing". She'd been hit on at bars with those words, been flirted with at crime scenes or with suspects. She remembered one particularly crude construction worker that had asked her if she'd "trade a hammer for a screw". So clever.

With Gil, it was poetic. He didn't just say she was beautiful, he'd give specific examples, like the deepness of her eyes, or how soft her hands felt in his, or the way he loved how her stomach curved into her hip. He touch her lightly, speak softly, and describe details to her so minute, she didn't know how he saw them. He'd use expressions so lyrical and elegant, she was never sure if he was quoting some famous poet or was using his own words. In truth, it didn't really matter. She knew he meant every word he said, and that made all the difference. In his arms, at his touch, Sara felt like the most beautiful woman in the world.

And that was why she was standing, arms crossed, in front of her closet for the first time in probably her whole life. She wanted to bring the clothes that would make that evening perfect. For once, she cared.

Her husband would be back in the country that night. Albeit, for twelve hours and albeit, for a layover on his way to Mexico City, but Sara was determined to make the most out of those twelve hours. He was to land at LAX at 5:15, so she had made reservations at the nicest restaurant she could find within twenty miles of the airport, and had booked a hotel room. It was only 10 a.m., and she was burning with anticipation.

If she could only find a damn thing to wear.

She shoved aside t-shirt after sweatshirt. The restaurant wasn't fancy enough for a dress, even though she longed for an opportunity to wear the deep purple one Gil had never gotten to see at the Gilbert Foundation party, but she seemed to have nothing in between formal and casual. Her court attire was too stuffy, her old "going out clothes" from San Francisco and early Vegas days too young. For the first time in her life, she envied Catherine's wardrobe. At least half her paycheck probably went to filling up her enormous walk-in closet, but at least she had something for every occasion.

Sara shook her head. She was being ridiculous. Gil would love her no matter what she wore. If she were being honest, he probably wouldn't even notice. He could spot the tiniest, most miniscule piece of evidence at a crime scene, but he was never the man to notice a new haircut or pair of shoes.

So she went to shower instead, to distract herself. She used expensive conditioner that she'd splurged on to make her hair extra soft and washed her body with lavender-scented scrub. She shaved as carefully as a brain surgeon trying to avoid a bad cut, and pulled out her hairdryer for the first time in months instead of letting her hair dry into haphazard, frizzy curls.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, she knew exactly what to wear. She carefully applied make-up, dabbed perfume behind her ears and on her chest and slid into the one pair of heels she owned. It felt strange to be getting ready so early, but she had a five hour drive to Los Angeles ahead of her, and she wasn't going to risk not having time to get ready before waiting for her husband at baggage claim. She wanted this night to be perfect.

The drive to L.A.X. was long and boring. It felt even longer because she was filled to the brim with anticipation of getting there. Nothing she did could distract her from looking at the digital clock every few minutes. She quickly got tired of the radio because she hated commercials. She tried listening to a book on tape, but her mind kept wandering, and when she snapped back to, she realized she missed the last chapter and a half and had to keep rewinding.

Outside, stretch after stretch of desert landscape flew by. Long and boring. She stopped in Barstow for gas and bought a granola bar and a bottle of water from the sleazy, greasy station attendant.

Signs of civilization finally began to spring up around her the closer she got to L.A., and she found herself happy to be back in California. She was a long, long way from San Francisco, but the tourists and the palm trees and the promise of an ocean nearby perked her nostalgia and mercifully made the last hour of the drive fly by.

She'd been to L.A.X. before, and she knew exactly where to park. She'd calculated her trip perfectly, and she pulled into arrival parking five minutes before Gil's flight was scheduled to land. She resisted the urge to check the mirror, and checked her phone instead, finding a text message waiting for her.

_Just landed. Going to break a window and bolt from this plane myself if we don't move faster._

Sara laughed. Her husband loved traveling, but not one trip went by without him complaining of how slowly things moved once they hit the ground. They'd all been trapped in the tin can for god-knows-how-many-hours, he would complain, flight crew included – weren't they all as anxious to get off as he was?

She put the car in park and slid out of the driver's seat, hoping that Gil's luggage was being forwarded on to Mexico City, and they wouldn't have to wait for it by baggage claim. He had a knack for his being the very last suitcase off the plane.

She pushed through the double-doors, leaving the hustle and bustle and car honking behind her, and entering the hustle and bustle of the airport. She checked the arrival board. Next to Gil's flight number was the green word _Arrived_. She anxiously peeked at the escalator bringing newly arrived passengers to baggage claim… no Gil yet.

For something to do, she walked the very end of baggage claim, to trolley number 25, where a group of tourists had apparently just arrived from Ontario. She checked her phone and started to walk back. This time, when she scanned the faces of the people heading down the escalator, she found the one she was looking for.

He looked tired, but healthy, and with an impressive suntan. His eyes were scanning the crowd around Sara as anxiously as she had been minutes before, until his gaze rested on her. His face softened, and he grinned.

She smiled back, filled with a sudden urge to shove every body between the two of them out of the way and throw herself to him. It had been longer than normal since they'd last seen each other. They usually went no longer than three months without a trip, but to no fault or reason, this absence had stretched into double that. Sara realized she was still grinning stupidly as the escalator slowly delivered him to her.

They had a rule about airports – no public displays of affection. They did the hello-I-missed-you-so-much/goodbye-I'll-miss-you-so-much routine enough that they knew those moments were so much more special if they saved them until they were in private. But that day felt different. That day _was_ different. And as soon as Grissom came within a few paces from his wife, he dropped his bag to the floor and took her into his arms. His thumb brushed her ear as they kissed, she could already feel heartbeat increase tenfold at the closeness of his body and she knew it was going to be hell saying goodbye in twelve hours.

His hand rested on her bare neck, his thumb still moving back and forth over her skin. She tucked her head beneath his chin, feeling him press a kiss into her hair, and smiled. When they pulled apart, his expression softened, and she smiled wider, knowing he remembered too.

_It was early in their relationship, and they were playing a good-natured game of Truth or Dare, with most of the dares involving kisses and most of the truths consisting of innocent-sounding questions hoping to gain insight into the other. They were only just starting to figure out the dynamic between them in a non-work-related setting, and though there were questions each were burning to ask the other, they were tucked away, saved for another time. And with each of them choosing 'dare' every other turn, 15 minutes worth of kissing between questions made it hard to keep up a serious conversation._

_ "Enough," Sara had giggled, pulling away from Grissom's latest dare. She twisted herself around, settling her back into his chest. "Ten years from now – what would your perfect date be?" _

_ "With you?" Grissom teased. _

_ Sara elbowed his gut in response._

_ "Yes, with me." _

_ "Kidding," Grissom chuckled. "We would… go get coffee. Talk for a while, about nothing in particular. And just… walk around, coming up with excuses to keep walking together until it's so late, we just have to eat dinner together." _

_ Sara twisted around to face him._

_ "The day we met," she said._

_ "If you would be so kind as to wear a navy t-shirt, a red sweater and a ponytail, that would go a long way towards adding to the atmosphere," he added, smiling. _

_ "You remember all that?" _

_ "Of course I do." _

_ Sara leaned in to kiss him, tenderly. _

_ "I didn't ask 'truth or dare'," he whispered. _

_ Sara smiled and kissed him again. _

_ "Why?" she asked. _

_ This time, Grissom smiled, and softly traced her jaw line with the back of his hand. _

_ "Because I always want to remember the day I fell in love with you."_

Travelers continued to hustle by, dragging children or suitcases or both and looking for family members or a taxi or both. Grissom stepped a few more steps back, looking at Sara from head to toe. She held her arms out for effect.

"Red sweater, navy t-shirt," Grissom noted. "You remembered everything – right down to the pony tail."

He stepped closer once more, snaking one arm around to the small of her back, burying the other hand in the short, silky ponytail at the nape of her neck.

"I'll never forget the day I fell in love with you," she said.

Grissom tilted his head back, eyebrows raised.

"Kidding."

"So what do you have in store for us tonight?" Grissom asked, reaching down for his bag with one hand, and taking Sara's in the other.

"Oh, you know, I just thought we'd—"

"Get some coffee, walk around and have dinner?" Grissom interrupted.

"Rats! You've spoiled my plan," Sara pouted.

"Did you just say rats?"

Sara glared at him as they pushed open the double-doors to pick-up lane lined with cars and taxis.

"I'm so glad I married you," Grissom chuckled.

"Yeah – after you finally wised up," Sara said, opening the backseat. Grissom tossed his bag in.

"What – did you take your feisty pills this morning?" he teased.

"I've just been saving up over the last _six months_," she shot back. "I've only got twelve hours with you, I gotta get it all out now."

"Okay, picking up on the not-so-subtle hints," Grissom said as they slid into Sara's car. He took her hand the moment it was free, and she let him, signaling she wasn't really upset with him. "I promise, honey, next time will be for longer."

"You say that every time," she replied, throwing a glance over her shoulder.

His eyes narrowed as he focused on her. She'd seen that look one too many times, usually he was crouched over something, examining it.

"Don't do that," she said, turning her gaze straight ahead.

"Don't do what?"

"Study me."

"I'm sorry," he apologized.

"You're not."

They fell into a few moments of silence, Sara's eyes holding steady on the road, Grissom's hand holding firm to hers. Finally, she sighed, giving in.

"I'm fine," she said.

Grissom lifted his chin, not taking his gaze off her.

"I'm just glad you're here," she continued. "Even if it is just for twelve hours."

She cracked a half-smile. Grissom squeezed her hand.

"You know," he began. "I do love your plan… but I'd also be okay with something more low-key… like room service, perhaps?"

Sara spun the wheel to the right, pulling off the highway and onto the exit.

"You mean like something at the hotel we're heading to now?"

Grissom stared at her. Her lips pursed and finally pulled into a wide smile. The car came to a stop at an intersection, and Sara put on the left turn signal before finally looking over at him.

"Have I mentioned how glad I am I married you?"

* * *

"So Nick and Hodges are just red in the face screaming at each other, the whole lab's spilling out in the hallway to come listen."

Grissom chuckled and Sara felt the bounce of his stomach against her back. They were sitting on the hotel room bed, Grissom's back up against the headboard, his legs spread into a "V". Sara sat between them, leaning against his chest and holding a plate of tiramisu. As she spoke, Grissom's arm snaked around her and stole a forkful of dessert.

"And here comes DB, walking down the hall like he's taking a Sunday stroll in the park, goes into Trace and just starts talking – right over all the yelling," she continued. "He starts telling a story about how his daughter learned to tie her shoelaces, and I can't even remember how he roped that back around to teamwork and cooperation, but he did."

"And it worked?"

"Somehow!"

Sara giggled and Grissom grinned from behind her. He reached around and loaded another forkful of dessert onto the fork, but held it up to Sara instead. She accepted the bite, chewing.

"I have to meet this DB," he mused. "He just might be a genius."

"Genius or a kook," Sara giggled again. "I still can't decide."

She held the plate up to him.

"Last bite's for you."

She took the fork from his hand and scooped up the last bit of tiramisu, deliberately aiming it off-target. Grissom licked his lips purposefully.

"Do I have any… around?" he asked, gesturing towards his face.

Sara smirked.

"I think you do."

She wiggled around to face him, pushing the empty plate aside and sitting cross-legged, her knees resting on his thighs. She brushed the corner of his mouth with her finger, bringing it to her mouth with the most innocent of gestures. But the look in her eye was anything but innocent.

Grissom watched as she licked her finger slowly. They stared at each other for a beat before Grissom grabbed her head with both hands, pulling her forward. He ravaged her mouth, kissing her like the world would end if he didn't. He didn't know what to do first; he wanted her – all of her – all at once.

Fortunately, Sara was a little more composed. Her hands were pressed flat against his chest, she was pushing him down, slowly, until he was lying flat beneath her. The empty plate clattered to the floor, but his senses were too focused on the woman pressed against him to notice.

She placed her knees on either side of his hips, running her palms up and down his chest, kissing him as fiercely as he was kissing her. Her fingers moved with ease down his shirt, undoing his buttons as she went, a practice she had almost memorized. She parted the shirt and Grissom felt his breathing quicken as she placed her hands on his bare skin. Her hands were cool, they always were.

They broke apart for a second, panting. He reached up into her hair, pulling out the elastic band holding it back. It cascaded around her face, and when she leaned down to kiss him, it tickled his cheek. He buried his fingers in it, concentrating on the feel of her kiss, the weight of her body, the scent of her. He missed her more than she knew when they were apart, but it was all the little things he remembered when they were together that reminded him how much he loved her.

Deciding it was high time he took control, he rolled them over, pressing Sara against the mattress and shrugging the rest of the way out of his shirt as he did so. She grinned, reaching for his belt buckle, but he caught her wrists, backing them gently back down to the bed. He held them there with one hand, though he knew she would keep them pinned there without his help, and used the other to trace the contour of her body, from her shoulder to her hip. He brought his hand along each curve, slowly. She wriggled impatiently beneath him, and they brought their lips to each other again, undressing each other simultaneously and furiously.

Sara beat him – he had less clothes to start with – and when he got her down to just her bra and panties, she began to squirm.

"Wait," she panted. "Wait."

"What's wrong?"

"I brought something."

He raised an eyebrow.

"What kind of something?"

"Just give me a second," she whispered, wiggling.

"Honey – this is like slamming on the brakes when the car's just getting into gear," he moaned.

"But—"

He stopped her with a kiss, and for a moment, he thought she was going to let it go. But she broke away only seconds later.

"Two seconds, Gil, I promise—"

"Sara," he murmured. "Whatever it is, just forget it."

"But – I brought my birthday present from last year," she said. "Remember it?"

He dropped his head. Of course he remembered it. It was a beautifully crafted, elegant black teddy he'd had shipped to her from Milan last year. He hadn't gotten a chance to see her in it yet, though he'd been home several times since. It always happened the same way, they planned a quiet, romantic, perfect evening and then abandoned all of it the moment they got their hands on each other. They probably canceled more dinner reservations than they'd actually taken.

He was pulled back into the present by the feel of Sara's light touch on his face.

"You ruin all my plans, Gil Grissom," she murmured.

"I'm sorry."

"You're not," she said for the second time that night.

"No," he said, leaning down to place a kiss in the valley between her breasts. "No, I'm not."

She arched her back up, allowing room for his hand to slip behind her and unhook the clasp of her bra, as much a practiced motion for him as unbuttoning a shirt was for her. He tossed the garment aside, not seeing where it landed. He was too focused on her soft curves, the rise and fall of her chest as she waited in anticipation. He kissed her chest, all over, until she dragged him back to her lips, and he was lost in her.

Their hands and lips were on each other, engrossed, letting memory and carnal desire take over. He had a hard time distinguishing his hands from Sara's, her skin from his.

He trailed his touch down, hooking his thumbs around her panties and pulling them down as far as he could. With a slight wiggle, Sara managed to kick them the rest of the way off. He lowered his hips onto hers, his length pressing against her core, but prolonging the inevitable.

He nipped at her ear and placed long kisses on her neck.

"I am compromising so many of my values right now," she murmured.

"What – sleeping with a man whose only in town for the night?" Grissom whispered back.

Sara snorted.

"No – sleeping in a hotel bed without washing the sheets or bringing my own," she retorted.

Grissom couldn't help it; he pulled his lips off her neck and burst into a fully-belly laugh. There they were, seconds from making love, and his wife was murmuring about germs.

"What?" Sara asked, extending her arms to their full length to look down at him.

"Nothing," Grissom chuckled. "The things we do for love."

"You're telling me," Sara replied, smothering his laugh with her kiss.

He began to massage her, his thumbs moving over her breasts, his palms making wide circles on her skin. He traced her stomach, down to her waist, across her thighs and finally, to the spot between her legs. He traced both his thumbs up and down her core, teasing her, with no pressure or penetration. Sara let out a soft whimper, trying to raise her hips to meet his. He chuckled. Fifty-five years old, but he could still make his wife want him.

"Patience, my dear," he murmured, pushing her hips back flat against the bed.

"Screw patience," she said throatily, and grabbed his length.

He gasped, half at her touch and half at her boldness. Sara was a tiger in bed, always had been, and she never ceased to surprise him.

He was just as anxious as she was, if not more, so he positioned himself to the right spot, then lowered his body flat, entering her and bringing his face close to hers at the same time.

Sara closed her eyes and let a hum slide from the back of her throat. He kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, and finally, her mouth.

"Love you," he whispered.

She smiled against his lips.

"Love you."

He began rhythmically moving his hips, back and forth, back and forth. Sara's hums of pleasure continued to slip from her lips. She wanted to close her eyes and surrender control of her body to him, but he knew how much he loved looking at her as they made love. And honestly, there wasn't much he wouldn't get her to do while staring into the intensity of those blue eyes.

"Sara," he groaned as he pushed into her.

"Hmmm?"

He captured her mouth, then kissed behind her ear.

"Sara."

"Hm?" she hummed.

He slid nearly completely out of her, then pushed back in, particularly forcefully.

"Sara."

She giggled.

"What, Gil?"

He smiled as he kissed her, his hips still moving back and forth.

"Nothing," he mumbled. "I just love saying your name."

Gil knew how to make everything perfect. He knew how fast to move, he knew where to put his hand, he knew when to speed up. She felt her muscles start to quiver, and she was about to tell him to go faster, when he started. He rocked harder, plunged deeper, and with each thrust, she lifted her hips off the bed to meet him. The erotically romantic sound of Gil's anatomy slapping against hers was what brought her to the edge, the combination of his calculated thrusts and feathery kisses was what threw her over.

She let herself go, not aware of what her hands and limbs were doing, not hearing what noises were coming from her. When she blinked her vision back to focus, Grissom was still looming above her, elbows on either side of her head, his forehead inches from hers. She arched up to close the few inches between them and kissed him.

"I think you get more beautiful every time I see you," he whispered.

"You're full of it," she giggled.

He took her mouth with his, and she wondered if she'd ever get tired of kissing him. He kissed her soft and slow once, then followed with a succession of several more quick kisses.

"My turn," she whispered.

She rolled them, her hands holding his butt to keep him inside her. She kissed down his chest before straightening, her legs folded, her knees on either side of his hips. She adjusted herself, repositioning on his length. He reached up and ran his hands down her sides, resting them on her hips.

She pushed her knees against the mattress, lifting herself to the very tip of his penis, before dropping all the way back down again. He grunted, his chin tilting and his head pushing back into the pillow. She grinned.

She began moving her hips in circles, his hands still on her waist, circling with her. Every once in a while, she would push her hips forward in an unexpected jolt, and he would groan and she would smile. He helped lift her up and down, she moved quicker, harder, feeling her modest breasts bouncing against her chest. His hips lifted with each movement, she could feel his own climax begin to swell within him. Through all of it, he kept his eyes open, watching her every move. She arched back, her hands on his hips, his on hers, and pushed forward. He let out one long, lingering moan, and she felt him spill inside her. She was sweaty and breathless, but he reached for her, pulling her down to him. They panted between kisses, his hands in her hair, and hers behind his ears.

They rolled to their sides, pressed chest-to-chest.

"I don't want you to go," Sara whispered.

"We still have nine hours," Grissom teased. "We can do that again – a few times."

Sara smiled, but it was fleeting, and dripped off her face after a few seconds, and expression of worry and sadness taking its place. Grissom reached out and stroked her cheek.

"Hey," he said softly.

"Would it be the worst thing in the world?" Sara asked, her voice trembling. "To stay in Vegas with me?"

"Oh, honey," Grissom replied, feeling his heart break as her eyes filled with tears. He pulled her closer. "Of course not. It's just been one thing after another – no time to stop and slow down, and I don't realize how much time has passed."

"See, that's the thing," Sara said. "I do. The days feel like weeks, the weeks like months. And then you're home, and time flies and you're gone again. It's never-ending. It's… a rollercoaster."

"You need some consistency."

"Yeah," Sara whispered.

"Have you been talking to my mother?"

Sara pulled away.

"No," she said, obviously hurt.

He put a hand behind her head and pulled her back to him.

"I'm just kidding, honey," he said. "But… why now?"

Her finger traced circles on his bare chest.

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do," he prodded.

"I'm not miserable," she clarified. "It just gets… lonely."

He settled back into the pillows, smoothing her hair.

"Why don't you come with me?" he asked. "Just… take off. Like we used to. You haven't come with me on a trip since last year."

She stayed quiet, and he knew that his suggestion was not sitting well with her.

"Honey?" he asked tentatively.

"Why is it always me making the sacrifices?" she asked. "Making compromises?"

"Compromises?" he repeated. "Who agreed without hesitation when you told me you wanted to leave Paris and go back to the job that almost tore you apart?"

Sara's eyes filled with tears again, and this time, a few spilled out.

"I'm sorry," he apologized quickly, knowing he had gone too far. "Honey… I trust you. Whole-heartedly, intimately. But be honest with me. If it's not working, tell me it's not working."

Sara buried herself into her husband's chest.

"It's not working."

Grissom took a deep breath and rested his chin on her head. He let out a long sigh.

"Then, we'll figure something out," he said. "When I get to Mexico City – I only work days for this trip, I'll have all my nights free. Or when I get back. But not tonight. Tonight, I just want to enjoy being with you."

"I'm sorry," Sara said meekly. "I didn't want to fight. I wanted tonight to be perfect."

"It is perfect," Grissom replied quickly. "And _I'm_ sorry."

Sara let out a throaty laugh and wiped her cheeks.

"This is ridiculous," she said. "You'd think I was pregnant with the way I'm carrying on."

Grissom raised an eyebrow.

"Do the math, Gil," she said sarcastically. "My stomach would be a basketball by now."

"I can cut Mexico City short, if you want," he offered, starting to stroke her hair again. "I can –"

"No," Sara said quickly. "I don't want to compromise your trips – that's your dream. We just need to work harder for something that works for both of us. You're right – we'll talk when you get back."

"Okay," Grissom murmured.

They fell into silence, Sara absentmindedly playing with Grissom's fingers, Grissom twisting strands of Sara's hair around his thumb and forefinger.

"Sara?" Grissom asked eventually.

"Hmm?"

"You know I'd never take another plane ride again if you asked me to."

Sara smiled.

"I know."

The rest of the night slipped through their fingers, drifting in and out of sleep, loving each other with the slow ease of comfortable lovers. Grissom's departing flight was scheduled for 5 a.m., an ungodly hour, but the only one that had allowed him a layover within a hundred miles of Sara. When the clock read 3:10, he slipped from Sara's arms and into the shower, trying to ignore how much it would kill him to walk away from his wife once more. He closed the bathroom door so only a little bit of light slipped out when he came out to dress. He toweled himself off, slipping into the clean boxers and jeans he'd stuffed into his carry-on, and paused to lean against the wall and watch Sara sleep. She hadn't moved from her side of the bed, lying flat on her stomach, the sheets twisted around her hips. Her lips were parted slightly, her face calm and serene and free of the worry and concentration that usually crossed it when she was awake.

He didn't make a sound, but her eyes fluttered open.

"Are you watching me?" she asked, her voice heavy with sleep.

"Maybe," he admitted.

He took a seat on the side of the bed and ran a hand down her bare back.

"Is it time to leave already?" she whispered, eyes closing again.

"Almost," he whispered back, bringing his hand across her collarbone and to her cheek. She leaned into his touch. "But you go back to sleep."

Her eyes fluttered open again.

"What?" she asked. "How did you expect to get to the airport?"

"I'll take a cab."

She sat, shaking her head.

"You'll never learn."

* * *

L.A.X. was eerily quiet at 4 a.m. A few businessmen dressed in suits unfortunate enough to be leaving on a work trip on a Saturday morning pushed money at their cab drivers and bustled off, briefcases and laptop bags in hand.

Sara pulled up to the curb where her car had sat just twelve hours before. She put it in park and grabbed Grissom's carry-on from the backseat, sitting next to the overnight bag she'd so carefully packed and hadn't touched.

"Call me when you land?" Sara asked, handing the satchel to him.

"Of course," Grissom replied softly.

He reached up to brush away her hair.

"This has been…"

"Yeah," Sara cut in. "It has."

He dropped his satchel to the sidewalk, and pulled her close, folding her into him and breaking their no-public-displays-of-affection rule for the second time in twelve hours. Sara had her elbows tucked between them, letting him hold her like a child. She took a deep breath.

Grissom moved his hands from her back to her head, cradling her face. He stared at her for a beat, memorizing every detail of her face to hold him over until he saw her next. He gave her a long, slow kiss, and when they parted, he planted one more on her cheek.

"So long," he whispered.

She smiled at their inside joke.

"Farewell."

He picked up his bag and smiled at her, walked a few paces to the door before turning back.

"I love you, Sara."

She widened her smile.

"Love you, too."

He winked at her and disappeared into the crowd. She didn't cry. She didn't even lose the wide smile on her face.

Because she knew what no matter how long it was before she got to hold him again, or how long after another adventure came along to tear him away again, as she knew it inevitably would, no matter how many miles it put between them, she knew his heart was hers.

And it always would be.


End file.
